


In Plain Sight

by MofBaskerville



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dates, Greg to the rescue, M/M, Stood Up, Ugly clothes, pubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MofBaskerville/pseuds/MofBaskerville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg has the misfortune of seeing Mycroft in an awkward and rather humiliating position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Plain Sight

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot written for a tumblr challenge that I never turned in. :(

Gregory Lestrade was in the middle of his second pint when he saw them walk in.

The Detective Inspector wasn't, strictly speaking, pissed to hell – that'd take another pint or two – but he was pleasantly buzzed and at first, he thought he was just seeing things. But as he drained his brew and tried to look nonchalant while checking out the newly arrived pair, he realized there was no mistake.

The first thought that entered his mind was that he'd never seen Mycroft Holmes in anything other than expensive tweed and silk in sober, serious colors. But there he was, dressed much more casually than Greg thought possible of the man. The outfit of grey polo neck and dark trousers made him look for all the world like a harried uni lecturer. It was … different, Greg acknowledged. Not different  _bad,_ mind. Just different … much as if Sherlock Holmes had come into NSY dressed only in white jeans and a plastic mac.

Lestrade pulled a face at that image. Okay, so  _that_ would be different  _bad._

He took another measured draught and looked casually over once more. They were standing around, trying to figure out which side of the booth they would sit on. Each time one made a move, the other moved to the same spot, and they'd both stop short and grin rather uselessly at each other. Greg's eyes narrowed. There was something about all this that was very familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

Lestrade was sure he'd never seen the other man before, and he leaned forward slightly, wanting to get a better look while they were still standing.

Mycroft's companion appeared to be closer to Sherlock's age, had a rather foppish mop of dark hair, and was quite a bit shorter than the elder Holmes, but with bulging muscles not quite contained by his jumper. His face was rather like Dimmock's - but without the purplish shadows under his eyes that all DI's acquired after a month or two in the post. Speaking of eyes, his were rather interesting, Greg thought. They tilted appealingly at the corners, giving the impression of perpetual bedroom eyes. He had a slightly exotic look to him, with slightly tan skin that didn't look like it came from a bottle or a sunbed, and generously sculpted lips.

He looked like some actor whose name Lestrade couldn't remember. Good-looking bloke, he was. The actor, that is.

And Mycroft's friend, too, if you were into that sort.

A colleague, Greg thought with an internal shrug. Just two blokes from the office having a pint while talking over which government coup to fund next. 

Lestrade sniggered darkly and went back to his drink.

But after few more moments of surreptitious observation – hell, the match on telly was garbage and there wasn't much else to look at in the pub – Greg started to wonder if he'd gotten it a bit wrong. They'd finally worked out where to sit, and were now deep in conversation. He'd gone for pints with the lads plenty of times before, and never did he  _grin_ the way Mycroft was doing, or  _wriggle_ in his seat. That gave Greg pause. Mycroft,  _wriggling_? This was a man who held the whole of Great Britain in his hand to hear Sherlock tell it. Did such men ever wriggle? 

A waitress arrived to drop off menus, and Mycroft beamed up at her, speaking somewhat animatedly. Lestrade stared, feeling a little uneasy. He'd seen Mycroft Holmes smile plenty of times, but none of them had been so ... insistently cheerful. He would have said the man was faking it - and overdoing it, too - but he couldn't imagine why he'd bother. His whole demeanor was bizarre, and if Lestrade weren't absolutely positive that it was, in fact, Mycroft Holmes in that booth, he would have thought the whole thing was some setup for one of those reality programmes.

_Huh. Could be they tipped a few somewhere else and this is next stop on their piss-up._

Though, Lestrade couldn't reconcile the idea of a serious, staid man like Mycroft Holmes doing a pub crawl. But then again, he couldn't have imagined him in an M&S polo knit, either.

The other man had his back to Greg, but he saw the fringe flop down as the other man studied the menu while Mycroft kept up the chatter. Greg's eyes narrowed. Years of interrogating suspects had made him an almost indomitable scholar on body language. He could read a person's mood like a book. Mycroft was shifting in his chair, smiling much too hard, picking up the menu and putting it down again without so much as glancing at it.

Yes. All the signs were there.

Mycroft Holmes was  _nervous_.

Greg licked his bottom lip as the idea spun out in his mind. He'd never seen the elder Holmes look anything like the picture of control and command. Yet there he was, in a pub in a somewhat dodgy part of the city, in clothes that he obviously was not at all comfortable in, judging by how he kept pulling the collar of the jumper, and chattering with a waitress who was clearly just watching the clock for her shift-end.

Lestrade was not now able to see the face of the other man, but he noted the set of his wide shoulders, the overly straight posture, and the way his head whipped round as if he were trying to find something on which to focus. His fingers were curled around the menu a shade too tight and he was tapping his left leg up and down intermittently. The other bloke was under some sort of stress, clearly, trying to hide it, and not succeeding at all.

The DI frowned. Not mates from work then. Mates from work didn't look like they'd just gotten a yardstick shoved up their arses. Was Mycroft sacking the man, maybe? Taking him out for a pint before delivering the bad news?

But then why change into different clothes? Clothes so outside the man's normal style, at that. The pub wasn't posh by any means, but there were quite a few suited-up city boys hanging about, taking their medicine before going home to the wife and kids. Mycroft would have fit in with his usual attire, even if waistcoats were a little outdated.

_Maybe they're undercover … meeting a contact here … or having a stakeout._

Greg let that idea run around in his head for a while before dismissing it, as well. He didn't know exactly what Mycroft did for Her Majesty's government, but from what he could gather, he played exclusively with the big boys, and he had …  _people …_ to do the crap work. The leader of a terrorist cell or a dictator bent on annihilating his own people wouldn't likely be strolling into a pub for a mug of bitter.

The waitress came back with their drinks, dropping off a complicated-looking cocktail in front of Mycroft and something foaming for the young bloke. Mycroft chattered at her again, and his friend didn't look up once. When she moved away once more, Greg saw the ginger-haired man glance speculatively at his companion before dropping his gaze to his own menu.

Lestrade's eyes widened as the pieces came together in startling clarity and the reality of situation suddenly hit him:

One party in togs they never usually wore, that they knew didn't quite suit them but banged on with them anyway, in a place they'd not usually go, and overly talkative and nervous. The other party suited up in nice-enough attire, stiff as a tin soldier, silent as a mouse, looking everywhere but at their companion, legs moving restlessly as if they wanted to get up and leave.

Mycroft Holmes was on a  _date_.

And by the looks of it, not a very successful one.

Greg felt a native sympathy. In the years before he'd met Pattie, he'd had his fair share of those awkward encounters when he knew that nothing would come of the evening, but stuck it out anyway to be a gentleman. And then there'd been those much more frequent – and frustrating – situations where  _he_ was keen but the woman was barely concealing her desire to be done with it all and back at her flat in front of telly - alone.

It was obvious to Lestrade that Mycroft was in the latter situation; keen but getting nowhere. The other bloke had barely spoken a word to him and now he was staring into his mug as if it were telling him dirty jokes, while Mycroft tried to keep up a conversation.

It was a bit painful to watch, and Greg felt a bit guilty for gawking. If anything, he thought he'd see  _Sherlock_  in a situation like this, not his unflappable older brother. Sherlock was a brilliant man in many ways, but socially, he could be an utter clot. Mycroft appeared to be much better graced with “people skills,” even if those skills were more suited to a Victorian novel.

Yet, obviously that wasn't enough for Mr. Universe there. It was ridiculously obvious that didn't give a toss about whatever Mycroft was saying and was ready to bolt.

Greg muttered a curse beneath his breath. So  _this_ was what he had to look forward to post-divorce? Stilted conversation and awkward silences in sticky pubs? He didn't relish it. Maybe he'd get lucky and a string of locked-door murder-suicides would keep him occupied until he stopped waking up with morning wood - or he finally snapped 

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. The other bloke was standing now, saying something to Mycroft with a slight smile. The bureaucrat nodded and returned the smile before taking a long pull on his drink. Greg reckoned they were calling an end to the night amicably.

But the bloke didn't move toward the door. He  _did,_ however, look over toward the front of the pub and caught Lestrade's eye. Greg flushed lightly, but he reckoned he'd make it more obvious that he was staring if he suddenly turned away. He kept the same colorless expression on his face, as if he were only some harmless prat who was in his cups, leering at nothing in particular.

It worked. The bloke turned and walked to the rear of the pub in the direction of the men's.

Greg mused on that. So it wasn't an end to the evening after all. Maybe he'd gotten the wrong end of things. Could be the bloke was just as nervous as Mycroft but had an odd way of showing it. Perhaps the mug of bitter had relaxed him enough to act like a human being and not a robot. Alcohol certainly loosened his own inhibitions. He was feeling a nice bit of a kick from the pints he'd already consumed, the potent brew almost burning away the memory of the shit day he'd had.

Lestrade considered Mycroft's night out, and cheered inwardly. He would never admit it to Sherlock – well, not unless the consulting detective got under his skin more so than usual – but he rather liked the elder Holmes.

Well, “liked” was maybe an understatement. Perhaps “was vaguely terrified by, but he seemed a good bloke, considering” was a better choice of words.

Sure, the “summoning” by black sedan could get quite old very quickly, but Greg was always duly impressed by the way the tall man seemed to get exactly what he wanted at any given time, from any quarter, whether the person ran nations or commanded armies. That he wielded so much power and yet appeared so unassuming fascinated Greg to no end.

He was also touched by Mycroft's obvious concern for his brother. But for Mycroft, the younger Holmes would have been in a jail cell or a coffin long ago, Lestrade was sure of it. Mycroft seemed so tied to his work and Greg reckoned it could be a bit lonely. God knew  _he_ understood that more than anyone. Good on him for getting into a bit of something nice.

Lestrade was only mildly surprised that Mycroft Holmes appeared to be into blokes. With his impeccable suits and ever-present umbrella, he seemed almost a walking stereotype of what people expected a rather “posh ponce” to be. Greg had always reckoned that Mycroft was one of those quietly straight blokes in government who inevitably married some exotically beautiful foreign woman – Asian, perhaps, or maybe Middle Eastern – who was uni-educated, spoke a dizzying number of languages, and hosted exclusive and elegant 'dos at their manor home.

Lestrade had noted the man's wedding band – worn on the wrong hand – but had not thought more of it. Asking Sherlock about his brother's marital status would have been a bit more comfortable than getting a prostate exam, so Greg had dropped it. It was intriguing, since most of the Yard thought Sherlock to be as gay as an archbishop's undershirt. Interesting that both brothers would be of that persuasion. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

Greg looked back over at Mycroft's table, intending to raise a silent and unseen salute to the happy couple, but he froze.

Mycroft was still there but his date was not.

Lestrade checked his watch. It wasn't an absurdly long time to be in the men's, especially if the bloke had chugged his pint a bit too quickly. The waitress had returned, clearly wanting them to get on with it and order their meals. Mycroft had a much more subdued conversation with her before again sending her on her way.

Greg turned away and contemplated the dregs of his drink. There was paperwork,  _God so much paperwork_ , to deal with from that home invasion-homicide from earlier. And then he had that stack of flat adverts to look through. John had suggested looking on the Internet, but there were some things that Greg didn't want to trust to the Web. Sally had told him too many horror stories.

A slight argument at the other end of the bar caught Lestrade's attention. Apparently a bloke in Fulham colours wasn't keen on taking no for an answer from a tight-lipped woman sipping a glass of port. Greg watched warily, ready to pull his warrant card and move the man along if it got a bit more out of pocket. After some cutting remarks that made Lestrade think that the woman had to be related to Donovan, the man slunk off with his mug and pretended interest in the one-sided match on telly.

Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief, and nodded when the barkeep made a topping off motion. He saw the edge of a menu at his elbow and reckoned that something to sop up the alcohol might be in order soon. He really didn't want to go back to the Yard and do paperwork, and he wasn't ready to face the closet that he was currently calling home.

He supposed he could drop by Baker Street and have a cuppa with John and Sherlock, maybe talk over that missing interpreter case that Sherlock seemed so interested in. He wondered if Sherlock knew that his older brother was out on a date, and Greg grinned to think of what expression the younger Holmes's would wear if  _he_ told him he'd seen his posh sibling in a grotty pub.

He glanced over at Mycroft Holmes's table. Blinked. Frowned.

Mycroft was  _still_ alone.

He was steadfastly studying the menu, but Lestrade could see the broad shoulders slouching slightly.

Startled, Greg looked again at his watch. There were many reasons why the bloke might still be in the bog, all of them too disturbing to think about, but Greg was beginning to feel very uneasy. He craned his neck to see if he could see beyond the shadows and darkness that enveloped the back of the pub. There was nothing. No movement of any kind.

Greg caught his bottom lip between his teeth, lost in thought. He registered movement from the man next to him as he slid off his stool and toddled back toward the men's. Lestrade held his breath – if Mycroft's date had fallen out or had a fit or something, the man would soon be screaming bloody hell …

Two minutes passed. Five. Eight.

The waitress had given up and had directed her relief to Mycroft's table with a jerk of the head and a few very nasty words. Greg glared at her as she flounced out, happy that she'd be missing out on the sort of exorbitant tip a man like Mycroft could leave.

The woman had just cleared the door when Greg's stool neighbor stumbled back into view. Greg clocked it in at just over 10 minutes. The man was obviously pissed, but he didn't look shaken or concerned. So no dead and/or quivering bodies in the gents, then. Lestrade reckoned he should be happy about that, but another glance at Mycroft's bent posture erased that.

“Oi, is the bog free?” Greg asked casually when the man winched himself back onto his seat. “Is there a line, I mean?”

“Nah, mate. A one-seater, that is.”

The man had broken capillaries on his nose and the filmy eyes of someone who spent very little time sober.

“Cold as pitch, though. Some bleeding tosser left the window wide open. Couldn't reach it – it's above the sink. Nearly froze my bollocks off.”

Greg nodded tightly and turned away, gripping his mug.

No one in the bathroom. Open window.

Bloody  _FUCKING_  hell.

 _He'd run._  The little twat had actually done a runner!

Mycroft's date had seriously swanned out the window like some comic book villain, rather than standing up like a bloke with something swinging between his legs and saying that he was all in, thank you very much, goodnight and get home safely. Greg could hardly believe it. Would not have believed it if he hadn't seen the resignation in Mycroft's demeanor and taken note of his bent head and reluctance to meet anyone's eyes.

The Detective Inspector couldn't look at Mycroft again. He just couldn't take in that defeated posture in so proud a man. It was clear to him now that the bureaucrat knew that he'd been ditched. He'd probably known the moment the man left the table. This was  _Mycroft Holmes_ , after all, the only man in the world more observant than Sherlock Holmes. That he could sit there shamming as if he were still trying to decide on dinner while his date puttered in the loo was … was …

Well, Greg didn't know  _what_ it was, except unfair.

And fucking infuriating.

And just …  _wrong_.

Men like Mycroft didn't get ditched. It went against the natural order of things.

Greg worried his bottom lip again. He considered going over to Mycroft, maybe playing it as if he'd just come into the pub and saw a familiar face … maybe invite himself to sit down for a pint –

No. He'd see through that. Instantly. He'd been humiliated enough that night. Greg was determined not to add on to it. Maybe Baker Street was not a good idea after all. Not that he'd tell Sherlock what he'd seen – not after this – but Sherlock might deduce it any way and Greg couldn't bear the consulting detective needling his brother about this. It wouldn't be right.

Sighing, Greg fished two tenners from his billfold and dropped them on the counter. After getting his change and leaving a suitable tip, he slid off the stool and onto steadier legs than he expected to have after two and a half pints. Hunching into his coat, he strode out of the pub into the bracing night.

Greg walked briskly down the street, keeping an eye open for the bloke. Maybe he was waiting for a bus home or a cab? Lestrade would have been thrilled to have a bit of a chat with him. No such luck, however, and Lestrade grumbled beneath his breath, taking a seat on the bench to await a bus back to his furnished little hovel.

The crisp air was sobering him up somewhat and his thoughts floated back to the solitary man who was likely still waiting in that damned booth. He'd stay until the bitter end, Greg reckoned, not wanting anyone to pick up on what happened. Not everyone was a Sherlock Holmes, but enough people still at the pub had seen Mycroft enter with someone that it would be noticed that he was suddenly alone.

He was reasonably sure that Mycroft would eat his meal, pay his bill, tip his waitress, and summon one of his cars to take him home. But the image of the “British Government” as Sherlock derisively called him, seeming so eager and excited at the outset only to be dejected and demoralized by one man's selfish act raised Greg's hackles.

His bus came. Lestrade stood up as it approached, but sat down again, waving the confused driver on. A cab slowed hopefully, but Greg shook his head.

Being lonely was  _hell_. He knew that better than anyone …

He looked so fit, too, Mycroft had. Greg blushed to think it, but he really had. Even in that awful polo neck.

That young bloke had been an utter tit, and Lestrade glowered, knowing that he could do nothing about the man's thoughtlessness. Nothing he could do to erase the pain and humiliation he imagined Mycroft must be feeling.

Or  _was_ there?

Fishing his mobile out, Greg stared at it for a moment before coming to a decision. Thumbing it open, he scrolled his contacts for the number. Hesitated a moment before pressing the button.

The click and buzz as the call connected sounded faraway to Greg, but that could have been because his heart was pounding so hard he could practically taste it.

This was … what was he  _doing_?

“Mycroft Holmes.”

Greg's eyes snapped open. The mobile trembled in his grip but he decided to blame it on the cold and not on the fact that he felt about ready to pass out.

He was about to either make the biggest mistake of his life or the best decision of his life. That's what he was doing. It didn't make him shiver any less, though.

“My … er, Mr. Holmes. Detective Inspector Lestrade here.” Greg tried for an informal but professional tone. “D'you have a moment?”

There was a pause. Greg could hear the match in the background. Someone had turned the telly way up. There was cheering going on.

“A moment,” came Mycroft's voice, sounding wary. “Is there something wrong, Detective Inspector? Is my brother –”

“– Wreaking havoc on my crime scenes and my staff? Glad you asked. Yes to both. Had to keep Donovan from lamping him today. He deserved it, though.”

“He often does.” Even through the noise, Greg could hear the amusement in the other man's cultured voice. “Is he making progress?”

“Hard to say. He spent most of the time berating my officers and whispering with John.”

“A normal afternoon for him, then.”

Greg grinned. “I suppose so, yeah. Just ... the Chief Inspector doesn't like hearing complaints about him. If he could see to it that he doesn't call too many of my men  _uninspired morons_ , that'd be a relief. Maybe you could have a word?”

"Mmm. Well, I'll see what I can do."

"Ta."

There was silence. Greg shivered in his coat and pulled it tighter around his shoulders.

“Was that all, Detective Inspector? I know my brother can be difficult, however –”

“– No.” Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut. He saw Mycroft's happy smile to the waitress in his mind's eye. He had such a beautiful smile …

"No?" There was unfiltered surprise in Mycroft's voice.

“No." Lestrade swallowed hard. "That is ... I … d'you … Ah, sod it. Would you want to get a drink sometime? Or dinner? With me?”

There was another long silence.

“Detective Inspector –”

“Greg works just as well. And it's shorter.”

“Ah. Greg then.” The voice was cautious. “If you're unable to make our scheduled briefing this week –”

“– This isn't about Sherlock.” Greg sat up straighter, swallowing around his dry throat.  _God_ , that had been awful ale. “This is about  _me_  asking  _you_ out for a pint. Or a curry. Or both. Or something else entirely. I just thought ... I'd ask. I'd, um, like it if you wanted to, but if you don't fancy -”

“- Ah.”

“Um … see, I really can't tell if that's a 'Thinking about it' kinda 'ah' or a 'Piss off' kinda 'ah,' or ...”

“Did you have a date in mind? A time?”

Greg was so busy attempting to not fall to pieces that he almost didn't hear what Mycroft said. When it registered, he brought his head up so sharply, his neck cracked.

“Sorry?”

“When would you like to … meet?”

A slow, disbelieving smile spread across Greg's face. He could  _taste_  his heartbeat now.

“Er … I know you've a busy schedule –”

“I could say the same of you, yet you found the time to ring me.”

“Yeah ...” Greg breathed. “I know this might sound a bit mad, but, er, would  _now_  work? I could meet you, er, somewhere.” That last was a bit clunky, but Greg blamed it on the cold and the residual effects of the alcohol.

“Ah.”

Mycroft seemed very fond of that word, Greg noticed.

“Well. Yes. I've not eaten as yet, as it happens. Now would be quite acceptable.”

“Great. I haven't eaten either and I'm gasping for something hot. D'you like curry? If not, there's Thai, Chinese, Italian –”

“I have a frightful craving for a korma right now, actually.”

“I love kormas, too!” Greg was grinning like a mad person. “There's a nice place not very far –”

He checked himself, squeezing his eyes shut.  _Right. Try not to let him know you're five meters from where he is and you've been goggling after him all night._

“There's a place not far from the Yard that's good.”

“Punjab Jewel? Yes, I quite like it. Shall we meet there in an hour?”

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. He'd have time to change, get a coffee to wash away the taste and influence of the bitter ale, put on some cologne, a clean shirt and run a comb though his hair.

“An hour's ace. See you then.”

“Until then … Greg.” There was a pause. “And 'Mycroft' is decidedly shorter than 'Mr. Holmes.' And more appropriate to the occasion, as well.”

The call disconnected just as Lestrade feared his face might melt down the front of his coat. Bounding up, he ran over to an idling cab, vibrating with energy and anticipation, casting an almost fond look back at the pub as the cab pulled away.

* * *

 

Mycroft Holmes took another sip from his cocktail, making a small face at the cloying sweetness of it all. It definitely lost its kick at room temperature.

Signalling for the cheque, he carefully counted out the requisite notes, smiled at the young woman who came to collect, and was thankful that she – unlike the last woman – saw fit to clean under her fingernails and was not abusing her stepchildren.

Pressing a button on his mobile, Mycroft swiftly keyed in a text message. He would have rung, but it was much too loud in the tiny pub. The football match was just starting to get exciting.

**Intel correct. Will discontinue CCTV in flat for one week, effective immediately. M**

By the time the woman brought his change and walked away smiling and pocketing a large tip, Mycroft had a text waiting.

**We agreed on two weeks. If you shag him, ensure he does not use your deodorant. I do not want to smell _you_ on him tomorrow. It will put me off. SH**

Mycroft grinned. He could afford to be generous. Two weeks then. Maybe the knowledge that he would not be watched would enable his little brother to finally break the ice with one Dr. John Watson.  _Something_  had to give in that regard.

His next text was to his trusted PA. Anthea informed him that “the package” had been delivered back to his flat, though he'd needed slight medical attention for an injury sustained after he'd evacuated the pub. Apparently as he'd shinned out of the bathroom window, he'd not noticed the bins at the bottom of the drop.

Mycroft smirked. It was about what the boy deserved. As soon as he'd sighted Lestrade, Mycroft had made it clear to the young fool that he should make it obvious to all in the pub that he was bored with his company before leaving him in the lurch. He thought maybe a small argument or the boy getting an "urgent" call on his mobile that he'd take outside and not return. Mycroft had not anticipated that the young man would decide the best way to carry out his objective would be to scale a bathroom wall and drop into a darkened alley without so much as a cursory look before he leaped.

But even there, Mycroft knew he could also afford to be generous. He asked Anthea to make a note to approve young Basil's request for that post in Brussels with a tidy relocation bonus besides.

That done, Mycroft glanced at his pocket watch. He estimated that it would take Greg 15 minutes to change and another 15 to get to the restaurant itself. That would leave  _him_ about 20 minutes to go back to his, freshen up, and change out of that godawful polo neck. Maybe that _had_ been a bit of overkill.


End file.
